Like Wilson
by lbc
Summary: Wilson is unhappy after all that has occurred in season 3.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Like Wilson (1/?)

Author: lbc

Pairing: Wilson and House, Wilson/OMC

Rating: slash; PG13

Disclaimer: I sure wish I owned these guys, but David Shore Does

Summary: Wilson is fed up and unhappy.

Note: Takes place after Whac-A-Mole and the third season episodes.

WHWHWH

James Wilson stood on the roof of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. It was fairly warm, the sun was hidden by a few clouds, but that didn't matter because for a few minutes, the handsome doctor was in his sanctuary. Previously, the balcony outside of his office had been his refuge, but he needed to be away from the irascible, scruffy doctor who had been his friend for almost twenty years.

Friendship . . . Wilson shook his head as that word crossed his mind. Had Greg House ever really been his friend? What did James Wilson expect of a friend? He didn't have many, but surely the relationship that existed between House and himself, wouldn't be termed friendship . . . at least, not by any sane, rational person. Would a friend allow Tritter to make such a mess of Wilson's life. . . and all because that so-called was acting like a stubborn jackass?

The brown hair shook again. Better not go there; that way lies . . . what?

Wilson sighed: Foreman was gone; Chase - fired, and Cameron . . . and Cameron had quit, but she had gotten her revenge before she had left - - she had savored her revenge, not against Greg House who fascinated her . . . no, her revenge was for James Wilson.

Moments before she had left PPTH, she had stopped by to see the man who she had accused of betraying House to save his own skin, but this time she spoke words that cut to Wilson's core. The trouble was that James Wilson had spoken much the same thing to Cuddy around the same time. That didn't make the oncologist feel any better. To know that House . . . his best friend looked upon Wilson with such contempt that the words became possible and that he would say them to Cameron.

As Cameron described it, House needed vicodin badly, but he was being kept on a short leash after forging Wilson's name to a prescription. Tritter was hounding him, and House tried to get Cameron to write a prescription for him. She had refused; she had not given in; she had cared more about her career than House. House's words were forever etched in his mind as Cameron sneeringly repeated them to the stricken man, "WHAT'S THE MATTER? AFRAID YOU'LL END UP **LIKE** **WILSON?**"

Wilson had acknowledged that he had enabled House in his struggle with the drug, vicodin, but those words clearly revealed Greg House's contempt for the man who had always given in. He had met Greg House in Med School. They had weathered the early years, Wilson's first two marriages, and separation as the younger doctor had worked to promote his career while the legend of Greg House continued to build, but House's infarction had changed everything. Now, every day was a test of that friendship. Money for a bike, bail money, lying to cover up forgery, even a new cane thanks to Hector were all tests, and now James Wilson knew he had come to the end. The petulant, spiteful words of his supposed friend had awakened the younger man to the fallacy that House really cared.

How stupid could he be? When House apologized in the shop after calling Wilson a coward several times, Wilson had still fallen for it. Well . . . no more. Even the guitar was one more test. House took, but never gave back. It was time for James Wilson to go and fortunately, he had been given an opportunity thanks to another friend, Dave Stevens.

Heaving his shoulders, the white-coated doctor made his way down the stairs to confront Lisa Cuddy about his decision. Unfortunately, it was not Cuddy who Wilson met as he descended into the main part of the hospital - - it was Greg House, totally clueless to the impending storm that was soon to hit western central New Jersey.

The younger man turned around to walk on past the scruffy doctor, but was immediately hailed, "Hey Wilson, you want to do take-out tonight? Didn't see you at lunch so I'm kind of hungry. You still owe me for all the stuff that Hector ate."

Wilson turned slowly, staring at the man who used sarcasm as a weapon better than anyone. "No thanks, House. Too bad Hector wouldn't fall in line with your plans. I wonder why you even took him; was it one more way to get at me?"

House looked slightly taken aback, "Well, who bit your butt? I was just askin'."

Wilson, one last time, dropped his shoulders in resignation. It did no good to try to enlighten House. "Yeah, well. I got things to do." Heading towards Cuddy's office, Wilson could hear the deliberately embarrassing shout of House as he bellowed, "Watch yourself, Wilson. Checking Cuddy's bra with her in it could be considered sexual harassment."

Wilson said nothing as he headed towards the office at the end of the hall. Leaving Princeton was looking better and better.

End of part 1


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a disappointing weekend, even though Gregory House would never have admitted it to himself that he expected anything from anyone, anymore. He wasn't sure what was going on with Wilson. Hadn't he tried to act social by inviting the man to have dinner with him? Hadn't Wilson told him to make an effort - - have a pizza, whatever, and here when I do, he rejects me.

This whole scene was taking place in the corridor, leading to House's office at PPTH. He was just about to use his key to open the door; his flame cane thrown over his wrist so that he could maneuver the door, when he noticed something really strange. First of all, Gregory House was not open to questioning the actions of people around him. They were so much on the periphery of his existence. Well, maybe that wasn't completely true; every once in awhile Wilson managed to batter himself through the walls, but Greg House squinted as he realized that he was actually THINKING about James Wilson!

Not only that, but he was thinking about why James Wilson had been so . . . unfeeling . . . so uncaring about House. He actually seemed to not feel any remorse whatsoever over the gazillion things that Hector had destroyed while under House's tender care. This was James Wilson, the man who felt guilt about everything . . . wouldn't even tell those parents what they needed to hear about their sons . . . what a coward!

Suddenly, House stopped: one thing bothered him that was cerebral - - Wilson had seemed upset when House had said that to him. Oh well, I apologized, didn't I?

The other thing was very real and a thousand times more disturbing: the door to Wilson's office - - the name on it was being removed and another name was being put up!!!

Without giving a thought to the keys in his own office door, House limped over to the man in overalls who was putting up the name, SYLVESTER CRUIKSHANK, MD. Staring at the door for a moment, House blurted out, "Where's Wilson?"

The man in overalls looked at him as if he were crazy. Either that or it could have been because House's voice had increased by several decibels. Finally, the older man shook his head, indicating that he was unsure what House was asking.

Quickly the thought that the man had escaped from the psyche ward crossed the scruffy doctor's mind, but trying to keep his temper, he repeated carefully, "Where's Wilson, the doctor whose name you just removed?"

The custodian shook his head, "Don't know, pal. Don't know this Wilson. Was just told by the head of Maintenance that this was the name that went on the door."

House's blue eyes sparked as he turned to do battle with Lisa Cuddy. The battle turned into a skirmish, however, as Cuddy seemed to be waiting for him. House popped a couple of vicodin and yelled, "Where's Wilson?"

"Calm down, I would have thought he would have told you, but well . . . he's in Boston."

_Shore._

Greg House didn't know why that name popped into his head, except that he really did. Several months ago, Alan Shore from a Boston legal firm had needed a consultant in oncology. Wilson had been recommended to him, and the two men had gotten on like a house on fire. (no pun intended) Wilson had spent a few days in Boston then, what was he doing up there now?"

Lisa Cuddy was a clever woman and she could often read the mind of her most troublesome doctor. She had known House during his infarction and she had even made James Wilson a candidate for a possible sperm donation. She prided herself on being able to read what was going on in that friendship. She was surprised, however, when James Wilson came to her last Friday and told her that he had changed his mind. Dave Stevens in Boston had offered the PPTH Oncology Department the chance to present some of its new ideas in a month long seminar. Sylvester Cruikshank had agreed to go, but now Wilson was planning to go instead.

Lisa Cuddy's usual neutral policy between House and Wilson tipped, however, when she thoughtlessly burst out, "What's House going to say about that?"

Cuddy knew there was trouble when the sensuous brown eyes looked at her frostily as Wilson replied, "Who cares? Cruikshank is a good doctor. He can put up with House for awhile."

And so James Wilson had left. And for a month, PPTH had Greg House off the leash while the office next door was occupied with a man the "genius" described as a moron! Lisa Cuddy felt a headache coming on as she explained all of this to House: Wilson was gone for a month and that Cruikshank would be acting in his place, not only as acting head of Oncology, but doing any consults that House needed.

House's blue eyes got a deeper color as he listened, but before Cuddy could finish he whirled and rushed from the office, muttering, "One moron replacing another!"

The armistice held because neither Cruikshank nor House saw each other. Even though their so-called "houses" (offices) were made of glass, they avoided each other completely. Without his ducklings, House did more clinic duty and less diagnosis of patients, but the DMZ was shaky at best.

One week later, Sylvester Cruikshank confronted House in exam room 2. House had been his usual haphazard self in noting some information in his original exam of a patient that had ended up in Cruikshank's care. The conversation had become sarcasm, heated, and personal. Two seconds later: Sylvester Cruikshank was on the floor from a right cross launched by Greg House.

Dr. Gregory House had had recent experience with the inside of a Princeton jail, but this time there was no James Wilson to bail him out. It was fortunate, therefore, that Cruikshank decided not to press charges, perhaps because some of his words involved the Head of Oncology at PPTH, and such slander would not look good on Cruikshank's record.

On the other hand, Lisa Cuddy could not permit her doctors to be brawling so Greg House now found himself on suspension, without pay, for the next three weeks. The time off didn't really bother the pugilist; it was just one more thing to hold against that moron, James Wilson.

End of part 2


	3. Chapter 3

James Wilson lay cuddled in warm arms. It was late at night and quiet. Everything was peaceful, or at least it seemed that way after the chaos that was his life since walking out of his marriage with Julie . . . and maybe even before.

Gentle fingers rubbed his aching neck. Julie had expected to be rubbed and caressed. She said it was what was expected. Wilson sighed in the sheer delight of relaxing in someone's arms. Someone who expected nothing . . . nothing from him except to have a sleep-over.

Alan Shore was an unusual man. He wasn't exactly scrupulously honest. He slept with judges (female) and was best friend's (male) with a conservative Republican who put some bigots to shame. He was also an excellent lawyer. His thoughts and his words were sometimes models of what all people should believe and practice. He was the model of tolerance in an intolerable word, and James Wilson was exhilarated that he had found a friend in the man who now held him in his arms.

Alan Shore was so different from Greg House. It was restful to be around him. It was stimulating to hear him speak, and his practice of having non-sexual sleep-overs with friends was liberating. Conversation, comfort, and compatibility without the obstacle of sex - - what a discovery!

James Wilson was sure, given Shore's attitude towards sex that same-gender sex would be possible, but it wasn't necessary. When Wilson had been younger, he had had some encounters, but it had been a long time . . . a very long time ago. Just a few years out of Med School, trying to establish his career, he had married and then married again . . . two more times. The only constant in his life seemed to be Greg House. He had mistaken that presence for friendship; now he knew the truth.

Friday evening, Wilson had packed up his few belongings. The hotel certainly didn't feel like home. He felt no qualms as he departed for a month in Bean Town. Shore had picked him up at Logan and they had shared a meal. Both men knew that this was not going to be a serious sexual encounter, but it felt so good to be able to talk to someone without wondering if this was one more test of that friendship.

It had now been a week since he had left . . . no House . . . nothing since that brief encounter. Wilson knew that it was cowardly to not tell House himself, but . . . Heavens, he was so tired of that word: coward. It was obvious that House didn't care. In fact, Wilson remembered an earlier encounter between the two men when Wilson had felt duty-bound to tell House about his plans regarding something or other and House had callously informed him that Wilson wasn't really sincere or he would have just gone ahead and done it, and not "announced" his intentions

Shore and he had spent sometime together, but the lawyer was involved in a trial and couldn't devote as much time as he liked to be with Wilson; besides, Denny Crane had informed Wilson that his attempts to get friendly with his newest female were not going well so a Crane/Shore sleep over was eminent. Both men had laughed about the vagaries of friendship, but Shore had the benefit of only being friends with Denny Crane while Wilson wasn't really sure what value House placed on James Wilson.

It had been a long day. Warm in the arms of Alan Shore, James Wilson fell asleep, dreaming of something. Unfortunately the next morning, he couldn't remember what. As the two men departed, each to their own work, they made plans to have dinner together. After all with Denny returning to the safety of the balcony and their nightly drinks and cigars, Wilson's and Shore's chances to see each other would most likely be put on hold.

James Wilson walked into Boston General. His seminars had been going well. Even Coopersmith had been cooperative although he had promptly informed James Wilson that he hated his colleague, Greg House, with a passion. Wilson wasn't really surprised since it was a well-known secret, and quite frankly, House's recent attempt to cover-up his desire to "persuade" Coopersmith and others into working on a drug for pain with falsified information that House had created, was still a very sore subject with James Wilson. Why didn't you come to me?

Those words kept floating through Wilson's mind as he remembered the agony of thinking that House was suffering from brain cancer. House's lame excuse that everyone should have minded their own business while he proceeded merrily on his way, had almost floored the oncologist. It seemed evident in hindsight that this was just one more slap in the face of the House/Wilson friendship.

Wilson spent the morning giving two seminars; the afternoon in the lab. Dave Stevens was giving him some time to work on various ideas that the younger man had regarding cancer treatment. It was important work and it didn't feature the need to face patients and give them the daunting news. Wilson found himself liking the lab more and more.

Late in the day, Dave Stevens called Wilson into his office. Stevens had been a friend since Med School and knew a great deal about the younger Wilson. He also knew about the difficulties that Wilson was having in his relations with Greg House.

"Jimmy, you've got everything going for you. You're one of the youngest heads of Oncology in the country. Don't let this jerk, do this to you. You know you've always got a job here, but I think you've got to be careful. We all remember what happened 20 years ago."

The words made Wilson's stomach flip-flop. A brief vision of a shower room flew through his mind. The nauseating smell of vomit still permeated his memory of that moment so long ago. Dave and Ben had been there. At age 18, his life seemed to be ending and yet here he was . . . he hadn't learned his lesson at all.

"Dave, I know I've done a lot of stupid things; how could I not, every time I write an alimony check, I remember. Bonnie's on her own and so is Julie. At least that's what she says. I'm pretty much on my own now. It might be a good idea to go somewhere else. I like Boston and . . . it does have its attractions . . ." Wilson hesitated, knowing full well that Dave Stevens was aware of his friendship with Alan Shore.

"Well, you've got a few more weeks so think about it."

Dave Stevens never finished his thoughts as a noise filtered through the door of his office. It sounded like some maniac was trying to batter his way through some security men or something. The muffled words, "Get outta my way; he knows me. Can't you see I'm a cripple?" Just as the words were blurted out, the door burst inward revealing a disheveled, exhausted Greg House, who was using his cane as a defense weapon.

The scruffy figure got inside the door, standing totally still as he took in the presence of two acquaintances: James Wilson and Dave Stevens. The deep, blue eyes frosted over as the whiskered face looked at the two gaping men.

Slowly removing a vicodin from its small bottle, a sneer crossed the whiskered face as he remarked, "Well, well, well, so tell me, are you two still having sex or is this just a close friendship?"

End of part 3


	4. Chapter 4

"_Well, well, well, so tell me, are you two still having sex or is this just a close friendship?"_

James Wilson had come to full attention in his chair as soon as he had heard the familiar voice, bemoaning his fate as a cripple. He knew what was coming, but he had not expected those words. His mouth opened like a guppy, but, instead of saying anything, he dropped his head to his chest and began to pinch the bridge of his nose in a very familiar gesture.

Dave Stevens, on the other hand, took the whole situation in stride as he stood. His only reaction was that he was happy that the security men had stationed themselves outside his office and hadn't been able to hear the "rather strange words".

Looking directly into House's blue eyes, Stevens smiled plastically and said, "Well, if it isn't Greg House? It's been a long time. Jimmy didn't tell me that you were in town."

The frost in the blue-eyed stare was one never to be forgotten, but Stevens wasn't sure if it was because of his use of the familiar name, 'Jimmy', or House's accusation that Stevens and 'Jimmy' were having sex. Stevens had known House since Med School and the diagnostician had always had a proprietary fixation with regards to James Wilson.

House flipped a vicodin into his mouth, dry swallowing as was his habit. Wilson heard the cap pop, so attuned to the scruffy man was he, that he knew what was going on without looking. A thought crossed the younger doctor's mind that, perhaps, House used the popping of the vicodin just as much as a delay mechanism as a painkiller. Wilson closed his eyes as the very thought of that gave him a great deal of pain. House was a pain in the butt, but he didn't deserve such thoughts as that. He doesn't trust me, and I guess I've really shown how little I trust him sometimes.

In a very quiet voice, House said, "I came here to talk to Wilson." The blue eyes stared at Stevens as if in defiance that the Boston doctor would dare refuse his intentions.

Dave Stevens nodded. "Yes, of course. You can use my office. It's got better noise insulation." Smiling impishly, Stevens went past House, opening the door. Stopping, however, before he exited, he turned and stared at the man with the cane. "Oh, by the way, Dr. House, Jimmy and I are not sleeping together, but it's not for lack of trying on my part." With another impish smile, Stevens departed.

Wilson stood up, feeling himself at a disadvantage with House standing and possessing a weapon (cane) in hand. Brown eyes looked into very tired blue eyes. "What are you doing here?"

House frowned at Wilson like he was a moron, "I told you; I came to talk to you. Why'd ya leave without sayin' anything?"

"You once told me when I announced other plans to you that I shouldn't bother to tell you things because that just meant that I didn't really want to do them, and I was trying to get justification." Silence ensued so Wilson continued, "So I left. After all, it's just for four weeks."

Scepticism immediately crossed the handsome face. "Is it?"

"Is it, what?"

"Just for four weeks?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

By this time, House had perched himself on the edge of an overstuffed chair near the desk. He looked up at the younger man, almost breathing sarcasm through both nostrils, "Oh, come on, Wilson. We're big boys. You just happen to come to Boston where Alan Shore is AND Dave Stevens. I know Stevens said that he wasn't sleeping with you, but can you say the same thing for Shore?"

Wilson caught his breath at House's temerity then he shook himself. Why should he be surprised; House made a career of deliberately saying startlingly things in hopes of putting his adversary at a disadvantage. Closing his eyes very slowly to give himself some time so that he wouldn't land a right hook on that scruffy jaw, Wilson took a deep breath. There were definitely advantages in having a bottle of vicodin around to pop when you needed time or space.

"House, it is none of your business who I sleep with. If that's all you came up here for, to question my . . . bedroom activities; then you can leave right now."

House sat staring at the standing man, trying to decide how far he could push. He wasn't that sure of his foundation, and he didn't want to lose James Wilson, if he could help it.

In the meantime, James Wilson decided that offense was the best defense so he blurted out, without really thinking, "Besides, why are you here? I mean . . . don't you have to work or something? It's the middle of the day, and I know Cuddy would have you doing clinic duty, if you didn't have patients."

Clinic duty was the bane of House's existence, but it was also the lever that Cuddy used to keep her "recalcitrant child" in line . . . somewhat. What was going on?

A brief smile entered the blue eyes as a sudden memory entered them, "Well, you could say that it's your fault."

"My fault? What have you done now?"

"I slugged that oncologist who's a bigger moron than the previous Head of Oncology at our beloved hospital. . . . I'm on suspension!"

James Wilson's mouth dropped open. He completely ignored the insult to himself and focussed on the recent violence that House seemed to have perpetrated. "Well, if you slugged Cruikshank . . . why aren't you in jail? You're not here, looking for bail money are you?"

Greg House gently placed his hand over his heart, and looking mournful, replied, "I'm hurt by that, James; I really am. No, I wasn't charged because I threatened to reveal the nature of his comments and splash them all over the hospital, revealing the man's homophobia and that he wasn't really 'our kind of folk'. In short . . . he caved."

Wilson dropped his head, shaking it gently in disbelief. He wiped his forehead and knuckled his eyes as if he had somehow fallen down the chute into Wonderland. "Are you crazy?" Wilson looked at the seated man briefly; then asked, "What did he say that got you so mad?"

"Well, either he's a raging homophobe OR he really hates you."

Wilson's face turned to total confusion, "You mean he thinks that I'm GAY? What did he say?"

House looked tired; his voice had dropped from the bellicose levels that he had used in the hallway. Wilson could barely hear him, but what he did hear froze him to the core. "He hinted that you got your job as Head of Oncology because you slept your way to the top."

"He thinks that I slept with Cuddy?" The handsome face screwed up in confusion; Wilson began blinking his eyes, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Well, duh, of course not Cuddy; that would be perfectly all right . . . well, not all right since you would be getting your job by bribery, but . . . well, you figure it out for yourself - - not Cuddy."

Wilson's forehead frowned, "Well, if not Cuddy then who would I sleep with that could help me get the . . .?" Wilson stopped as his face turned sheet white then red. "You?"

Wilson began a sickly laugh which House promptly took offense at. "What's the matter with me? Why couldn't you be my toyboy or something? After all, I was at Princeton and then you followed me."

Rage filled Wilson, but he wasn't sure he was so angry at: Cruikshank for spreading such lies or Greg House for making them lies. Wilson stopped, realizing what he had just thought.

"I have never slept with you, and you know it. Why didn't you just deny it?"

"Wweelllllllll, I was kind of confused. I sort of remembered to hit him, but after that it was so perplexing." The insincere whine was so idiotic that Wilson almost broke out laughing . . . almost.

"What happened to Cruikshank?"

"Don't know; Cuddy took him aside and haven't heard anything since. She took me aside and besides giving me a full look at her C-cup, she suspended me for three weeks, without pay, mind you, and so here I am. Could you loan me some money?"

"You are unbelievable. Go back to the airport; and get on the first plane out of here. Sell that bike if you have to. I'm not giving you any money, and I have work to do here."

House stood; his posture resembling a naughty little boy. "Gee, that's not very nice. I got suspended, defending you. The least you could do is give me a loan."

"House, I said, get out of here. I've got several more weeks here; go sponge off someone else."

A look of true deviltry filled the blue eyes. Greg House routinely threw out words without thinking of their consequences. This time the words he would utter would shake his world to the core.

"Gee Jimmy, you sure aren't behaving like your usual self."

Wilson shrugged his shoulders, wearily admitting defeat. No, he certainly didn't want to be the James Wilson who had tried to be Greg House's friend for twenty years. Wilson took a step forward, entering House's personal space, almost hissing, "Maybe that's just the trouble, House; I don't want to be LIKE WILSON anymore. Now, get out of here."

With those words, James Wilson walked out on the man he loved.

End of part 4


	5. Chapter 5

James Wilson sat on a stool in his lab. It wasn't really his lab, but Dave Stevens had encouraged him to work on some of his ideas. Wilson liked the huge room where machines, glass, and science all came together. House was right; he had been a coward, not being able to tell those parents what needed to be done. He needed to make his own decisions, just as those parents had insisted upon.

The lure of Greg House was just as strong today as it had been when he was an 18 year old in the first year of Med School. His father had been a constant torment. He demanded the best from his middle son. He had lost one brother to mental illness as he had disappeared into the fog of the homeless. His other brother was as self-righteous, in many ways, as was his father. Greg House had been so different: flawed, yes, but willing to do and say such a wide variety of things that he knew people wouldn't approve of. Besides, he made Wilson laugh . . . well, at least some of the time, and then he had graduated and Wilson's perfect world and his GPA had plummeted.

Now twenty years later, Greg House was still tearing up James Wilson's life; only this time, Wilson had been the one to walk out, maybe to preserve his sanity . . . he wasn't sure anymore.

It had been a very long day. Dave Stevens had said little about House's arrival. He had known House on a superficial level some twenty years before. House's medical ability was already evident even then, but it was his acerbic, sarcastic nature that had made the future doctor legendary in the annals of the Med School. When he had moved on to Hopkins for his internship, there were many individuals who breathed a sigh of relief. James Wilson was not one of them.

It wasn't easy for the 18 year old to be "friends" with a man almost 28, but House hadn't been shredded yet by the infarction. Like Wilson, however, House had also had to endure a life altering relationship with his own father. Neither of the future doctors would come out of that situation, fully functional. When House accused Wilson of being pathetic, Wilson never argued any differently. It was true. Just as John House mutilated the younger House's personality in so many ways, James Wilson had felt the brunt of his father's domineering demands.

Sighing, Wilson slowly walked through the doors of Boston Hospital, taking a gulp of less than fresh air. He stopped immediately as he recognized the figure of Alan Shore, waiting for him. Shore's car was parked illegally in a fire zone, but Wilson's heart leapt to see the friendly face; then he remembered the dinner the two men had planned for the evening.

Walking up to the older man, Wilson grimaced and said, "Sorry, I forgot about tonight; I've had a less than stellar day."

"No problem. Denny's back and demanding a night of cigars, brandy, and the balcony so we won't be able to keep the dinner date anyhow." Denny was Alan's best friend, very influential in Alan's life and he had an ego of monumental proportions. The two friends often spent the evening hours out on the balcony of their law firm, talking about the day's activities. This was their support system and it worked well. Many times, the evening ended in what was called a "sleep-over" that was pure friendship with no sex involved.

Denny prided himself on being "Denny Crane". He was also in the twilight of his career and badly needed the support of Alan Shore. It was friendship that worked and James Wilson found himself strangely envious of what Shore and Crane had between them.

Wilson nodded as he heard what Alan said. "I understand; thanks for stopping by to let me know. I'm not really hungry anyway so this will give me a chance to go to the apartment and relax."

Shore smiled; his eyes twinkling. "Well, that's another reason I'm here; have you forgotten that I dropped you off here, this morning; you might need a ride home?"

Wilson laughed tiredly, knuckling his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I had forgotten." So much had occurred in the hours since the two men had left Wilson's apartment that Wilson had not focussed on anything but Greg House.

"Get in; I'll take you home."

At Shore's prompting, the oncologist verbalized Greg House's arrival at Boston Hospital. Stopping in front of Wilson's apartment, Shore asked quietly, "Are you sure you don't want me to come in for awhile? Sounds like you need some rest, a stiff drink, and a sympathetic ear."

Standing next to the car, Wilson looked at his friend with affection. "No, no, you go on to Denny. After that recent break up with the 'little person' and her mom, he needs you. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Shore pulled out, waving at the slumped individual in his rear view mirror. Wilson made his way into the large building and successfully navigated the elevator to his floor. He stopped, however, because sitting on the floor next to his door was Greg House, looking scruffier than usual, and pounding his cane to a tune only he could hear into the luxurious carpet that covered the entire hallway.

Warily walking up to the impatient man, Wilson demanded, "What are you doing here? How did you find this place?"

A sheepish look crossed the whiskered face, "Well, since you forgot to tell me where you live, I had to do a little investigating."

"Maybe there was a reason why I didn't tell you where I live."

House's eyes opened wide as they had so many times when he meant to convey the idea that the person just had to be joshing around. "I know you don't mean that. After all, I'm a visitor to this city and where else would I stay except with my best buddy?"

His voice was not quite under control, as Wilson blurted out, "You're not staying here. Call a taxi; get a hotel."

Now House undertook the persona of put-upon friend, "Naughty, naughty, Wilson. After all you did invite me."

"I did NOT"

Now House's smirk blossomed in brilliant panorama, "Of course, you did. Otherwise, why would you have run out on me?"

Standing facing each other, House's face conveyed the idea to the obvious moron, Wilson, that House was making perfect sense which he further confirmed with, "Besides, Jimmy, I got to go pee; I've been waiting out here for you FOR HOURS."

Wilson stuck his key in the door, knowing a lost cause when he saw it, but he made one last effort. "All right, all right, you can come in and use the toilet; then I'll call you a taxi and you can go to some hotel."

"They're all full," was blurted out by the voice, rushing towards the facilities. Wilson realized that he was still pointing towards the toilet, so he let his arm drop. Got to find the directory. He's got to get out of here now.

While James Wilson was being driven home, he had had time to think about what House had said earlier. It didn't make any sense. Cruikshank, who had come to PPTH after Wilson had, wasn't spectacular, but he was a very good doctor. It was well known that Wilson was a _wunderkind _in his chosen field. He had entered Med School at the tender age of 18 and had graduated with honors. No one could doubt that he had earned his position and Greg House had nothing to do with it so what was House doing, trying to spread such a story?

As House re-entered the living area, Wilson managed to get on the phone to a hotel. As House stared suspiciously at the younger man, he began to smile smugly as it was obvious that Wilson's phone call was not going well. Shutting off the phone, Wilson turned to look at the man with the cane as he said in a somewhat befuddled fashion, "It's full!"

"Told you they were; seems to be some series of seminars with doctors coming to hear all the great brains, ranting about this and that."

Wilson squinted his deep brown eyes at House as if he were even a bigger moron than expected and replied, "I'll try another." After a few minutes, it was obvious that the upscale hotels were indeed full. Wilson looked totally frustrated, but was not yet willing to give up. "All right, all right. I'll order you a taxi. You can take it to a place nearer the airport (hoping House would take the hint) and then get a plane out tomorrow."

The blue eyes widened in surprise that Wilson seemed so desperate to get rid of him. This was definitely a good sign. By this time, House was exhausted, and he had not expected such a lackluster welcome - - something was really bothering Wilson.

Wilson had turned his back to the older doctor, but he suddenly turned as he let out what later House categorized as a squeal, "But, it can't take three hours!" Clicking off the phone, Wilson threw it across the room so that it landed on the sofa, while rubbing his hand across the nape of his neck in total frustration.

"Something wrong?"

In a voice pitched one octave higher, Wilson blurted out, "How can every taxi in Boston be so busy that the very earliest one possible is at least three hours?????"

House raised his eyebrows in bewilderment, though he knew well the vagaries of large city traffic.

Wilson whirled around as if to blame House for everything; his handsome face several shades darker red, "Do you know what that moron dispatcher had the nerve to say?"

Wisely House merely shook his head.

"He said, 'What could I expect since it's like a hurricane out there?'"

Wilson rushed over to the sliding doors that were the exit to the balcony which was attached to the apartment. On clear nights, the lights of the city were magnificent, but tonight the view beyond the window was a torrent of almost horizontal rain. Wilson stood staring at it as if he were in prison and going to make the last walk through those doors.

On the other hand, Greg House read the storm as a gift. Maybe he could use it to help find out what the hell was going on before his friend got in an affair which could destroy his reputation, and would absolutely, with complete certainty, destroy the only relationship that Greg House ever truly cared about.

Greg House had fought all his life to avoid commitment. He had put up barriers, letting few people beyond those walls. Stacey had breached his outer defenses, but it was James Wilson who managed to get into the interior core. The scruffy doctor had not been bothered by Wilson's three wives; they were merely an inconvenience and a delaying factor, but another man . . . another man. Greg House had read one time something that now came to mind. Chiang Kai-Shek, who had been leader of Nationalist China, had defended his country's continued war against the forces of Mao Zedong because, as he put it:

"_The Japanese are a disease of the skin.  
The Communists are a disease of the heart."_

Greg House had to silently admit to himself that Wilson's wives had gotten under his skin, but if Alan Shore had captured James Wilson's love; then his heart would be forever shattered.

The two men stood silently in the large living room. Standing at the sliding doors looking out at the terrible weather, Wilson's face resembled one of the masks often used in the theater, and it definitely wasn't comedy. House stood watching the back of the younger man.

Finally, Wilson turned around, sighing slowly, "Must be a nor'easter or something. I can drive you to a hotel. Where's your bag?"

House went all glazed over for a second. He had forgotten that Wilson might want him out so badly that he would even imperil his life by driving House to some forgotten hole. "I . . . I . . . don't know. I might have lost it."

"What?" A migraine was starting to invade James Wilson's world. It was too much. He headed towards his bedroom at a rapid pace. "You can sleep on the sofa." Just as he reached the bedroom door, however, the oncologist whirled, staring at House and pointing. "Why did you lie to me about what Cruikshank said?"

"Who said I did?"

"Oh, come on. Sleeping with Cuddy might get me a job, but why would Cruikshank think that getting it on with you, would make a difference? That's not how they do things."

House deliberately dropped his mouth wide open as if stunned, "What? Well, now you tell me; that's what Cuddy said I had to do to get a job."

Wilson looked long suffering but wasn't about to be diverted. "Answer my question; why did you lie?"

"Everybody lies." Wilson stood there stunned. It never ended. Why had he even tried? Feeling like throwing the man with the cane out the front door, Wilson whirled around, heading for the bedroom.

Greg House might be down, but he was still Greg House. An impish look crossed his face as he yelled down the hallway in that weird voice he reserved for provoking James Wilson, "I don't have my jammies with me or a toothbrush, can I borrow yours?"

The only thing that House got for his trouble was a pillow and blanket in the face as Wilson's bedroom door slammed shut.

Muttering to himself, House headed towards the less than comfy looking sofa, remarking "Well, that went rather well!", as he began making plans for the next part in his campaign.

End of chapter 5; conclusion in chapter 6


	6. Chapter 6

The sofa was not as uncomfortable as the diagnostician had expected, but it wasn't where he wanted to be. The Westminster chime clock had not missed a beat or a note. It had just pealed 2:15 am. Greg House decided to act. After all, what could Wilson do except use his surgical skills to remove House's organs while he was still alive?

House cautiously entered the bedroom, pretending to need a call of nature. The real problem with this was that there was a half-bath down the hall that was readily available, but House was not concerned with such small details at the moment.

He had stripped to his t-shirt and boxers. He could see the cuddled up lump in the dim bedroom. Gently and quietly he moved towards the bed, sliding in under the covers, lying supine next to the warm body of James Wilson. Now for the hard part.

Slowly snaking his left arm down the bed, House managed to find a curled up hand. Bringing it to his lips, he kissed the palm then gently cradled it over his heart, sinking into the first slumber he had had since he had arrived in Boston, chasing the most moronic and clueless man on the face of the earth.

Nothing happened . . . at least, not for several minutes, but then James Wilson came fully awake and tried to remove his captured hand from the clutches of . . . The younger doctor could not exactly remember who he was in bed with. He could have sworn that he had gone to bed alone, but there was obviously someone, and they weren't letting go. And then . . . James Wilson remembered who had invaded his apartment earlier in the evening.

Sitting straight up in bed, Wilson struggled to free his hand, but House refused to let go. In a true struggle for supremacy Wilson knew that he could probably win, but that might cause injury and the man beside him had had enough injury. He decided to allow his hand to remain captured, but he was going to resist this strange behavior in other ways.

"Let go of me."

"No."

"LET GO OF ME!"

"No. Now if you can remain calm and rational, I will not throw you back on the bed and have my wicked way with you. I'm planning to ask you some questions, so you might as well accept that."

Wilson sat there - - dumbfounded! "Questions . . . questions - - that's what this is all about? You want to ask me questions at . . . 2:30 in the morning?"(Wilson squinted at the clock as he asked this)

"Yeah, what difference does it make what time it is? You always want to talk; here I am, let's do it."

If James Wilson could have seen through the gloom, he would have noticed the eyebrows luridly jumping up and down with relish, but he was so astounded that he missed this byplay. "What do you want to talk about? I'd say that we've talked enough to last a lifetime."

"I want to know why you ran out on me. Why'd you give me that crazy remark about not being like yourself? I want to know if you've had sex with Shore. I want to know . . ."

House was forced to stop because Wilson was making another attempt to escape his grasp. "Stop that; you'll hurt yourself; stop being a moron and answer me." House dropped his head onto his chest, "Look I'll make you a deal; answer my questions truthfully and I'll get out of your hair."

Wilson's handsome face turned to face the dimly lit whiskered man, "You'll leave and go back to Princeton?"

"I can't promise Princeton what with that howling menace outside, but I'll leave here and go someplace else."

James Wilson remained wary, but was willing to make an effort because frankly he could see no other way of getting the most irritating, fascinating man in the world out of his apartment. "Okay, but what kind of questions are we talking about? I'm not answering things like, "Have I ever touched Cuddy's bra or things like that?"

House's face lit up in delight, "Oh, so you did touch her laundry that time; I thought you did."

Wilson smiled shyly, "Who said it was her laundry?"

House's eyes widened; his mouth opened and shut like a guppy, "You didn't? You did? Tell me more."

"Do you want that to be one of your questions?"

House frowned as if he were thinking it over, "Nah, nah, I don't need to know any of your prurient goings-on. That doesn't count."

Wilson now saw that he had some leverage so he played it for all it was worth. "What do I get if I answer these questions? Here are the rules: you promise to leave after I answer the questions and you can only ask two questions."

"Four."

"Three."

House got a pouty look on his face but nodded his head in agreement. "All right, three questions, but you have to answer with the total truth, anything less, and I don't go. In fact, you lie to me and I move in here and stay forever." (House figured that he couldn't lose either way with this deal)

Wilson looked amazed at such conditions, but he nodded, "Just one more thing - - let go of my hand, I can't think with you mauling it."

"All right, but you've got to stay on the bed. You move off it, and the deal's off."

After House released Wilson's right hand, the younger man promptly turned to sit on the side of the bed, facing the bathroom. Wilson could feel House move closer to him, but he figured it was better if he wasn't actually looking at House even though the room was fairly dark.

"All right, let's get this over with. **I **have to go to work tomorrow . . . err today."

House's hot breath seemed to be right near Wilson's right ear, "Sure rub it in that I'm out of work. Okay, here goes. Remember - - the absolute truth."

"How'll you know if I lie?"

"I'll know; 'sides that cute nose of yours wrinkles up and gets longer when you lie to me."

"**It does not!**"

"All right, here's question number one: are you sleeping with Alan Shore?"

Wilson hesitated and then answered, "Yes, I did a couple of times."

"**What? You did?"**

"Is that your second question?"

"No, of course not; I mean explain yourself more. You can't just leave it there."

"You didn't say I had to explain as well."

"Do you want me mooching off you forever?

Wilson sighed and explained, "Alan likes what are called sleep-overs. We slept together in bed, but there was no sex. He does the same thing with Denny. You remember Denny, the one who has the ego that is about half as big as yours."

House's face took on an air of offense as he remembered the pompous man who had accompanied Shore when they had gotten Wilson to consult on a case. "I should be offended at that, but I'll accept that answer. Here's number two:" House hesitated even longer this time then continued, "Why did you sleep with Ben Jefferson?"

The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees in seconds. The silence was so thick that it would need a jackhammer to break it. Finally, Wilson whispered, "How . . . how did you know about that? It was twenty years ago and you had graduated."

House closed his eyes as he remembered the scene being described to him: Ben Jefferson sneaking out of the young James Wilson's room, looking extremely satisfied. He verbalized none of that, he merely replied, "Weasel."

Wilson thought for a moment then blurted out, "Weasel Murkowski, that little sleaze? You had him spying on me?"

House nodded into the gloom, "Yeah, I asked him to keep an eye on you . . . after I left, and he told me about Jefferson, leaving your room late at night."

"You . . . you asshole. All these years, you left me, remember? You graduated; I was left behind. What right did you have to . . . to spy on me? I refuse to answer anymore."

"Fine, then scoot over; I'm kind of tired. Tomorrow, we can drive out to the airport and pick up my bag; I think that's where I left it."

Wilson wiped his forehead; his migraine was creeping back at the edges of his consciousness. He had to get this man out of here before he committed murder or suicide.

"All right, all right. I did sleep with him. We even had some sex, but it didn't mean anything. I was so cold, and I needed someone to be there. You were gone, and I couldn't handle it. I missed you."

House looked at the downcast eyes, feeling a stirring in his chest that he always associated with his feelings towards James Wilson. "Is that all?"

"That's all you're going to get; even if you promise to haunt me for the next thirty years. Besides, what do you care?"

House decided for the moment to back away from the obvious greater depth of this situation. Wilson was hiding something, but House needed to ask his third question.

Nodding, the scruffy doctor asked, "Okay, here's number 3, what did you mean by the remark that you didn't want to be like Wilson anymore?"

Wilson started to stand up but fell back on the bed; he wrapped his arms around himself as if trying to protect himself. With a few carefully chosen words, he revealed what Cameron had told him and his reaction to the implication of House's words about her not turning out like Wilson. "I . . . could almost hear the contempt that you had for me in those words. I betrayed you; I've enabled you to take drugs, and I've overlooked so many things. I . . . I just can't do it anymore. I've watched you die twice . . . I can't watch you kill yourself with the vicodin. I knew when you told me at the jail that nothing had changed that it was all over. I made my decision to leave when I heard what Cameron said."

Wilson stood up quickly, whirling around to face the seated House, "Now, have I spilled my guts enough? I want you out of here - - NOW!" With that Wilson raced into the bathroom and locked the door.

Wilson leaned against the closed door, breathing heavily. His heart was pounding. He remembered the effects that the uppers had done to his body when House had drugged his coffee. It was always House who affected his life. The man was the catalyst for some of his greatest joys and certainly his greatest sorrows. What was going to happen now?

After several minutes, Wilson managed to calm his racing pulse enough that he could hear sounds on the other side of the door. It was House and he was HUMMING! How dare that maniac hum as if nothing was wrong - - not after he had wrecked Wilson's life!

Yelling through the door, Wilson demanded, "Get out of here, you moron. You said you would leave!"

In a high falsetto voice, House returned, "The deal was broken when you got up and left. I'm remaking MY bed so that I can get comfy."

House could hear a moan through the door; he finished remaking the bed; removed his clothing and climbed into the large bed, waiting.

After a few minutes, the younger man exited the bathroom, sliding into the other side of the bed without saying a word. Wilson was tense and House knew it, but, at least, he had his Jamie in bed next to him. That was a start.

Reaching down his side, House grabbed Wilson's clenched hand once again and drew it onto his chest. Expecting Wilson to protest, he prepared himself to keep the hand in his grasp, but the protest never occurred. After a moment, House whispered, "Good night, Jamie."

After what seemed like eons, a small whispered, "Good night." was returned.

House sighed as he prepared for what was to be the biggest day of his life.

End of part 6a


	7. Chapter 7

The two men lay next to each other for a few minutes. The atmosphere was not uncomfortable, but neither was it cozy. Finally, James Wilson tried to withdraw his hand from the clutches of the other man. When that effort failed, Wilson decided to go on the attack.

"Why did you lie to me about what Cruikshank said?"

"How could I tell you the truth?"

"Well, now that's logical since I don't even know what it was he said."

"He said that he didn't know why you put up with me. He figured that the only reason must be that you had the hots for me - - only he used a different word."

"And . . . and that offended you so much that you hit him?"

Wilson could hear a brief snort before the older man replied, "Hell, no. I don't care if you're ready to strip me naked and have your wicked way with me."

Wilson's eyes blinked several times. He felt like he had just swallowed his Adam's apple. Managing to gasp out, "So why'd you hit him?" he waited.

"Nobody talks about you like that . . . except me, and, of course, your wives."

Wilson grimaced slightly; he knew how House felt about his wives. The acerbic sarcasm had spared none of them. Wilson kept telling himself that he had loved his wives, but he knew who he loved more . . . but that was ended now, or was it? If it was ended, why was he in bed with the man?

"House, why don't you go back to Princeton; I'm sure if you apologize Cuddy'll remove the suspension."

"You tryin' to get rid of me?"

"Well . . . yes. I'm not sure that this is a good idea. You need to draw back into your fortress and think about what you're doing."

House leaned forward his chest almost touching Wilson's. Their faces were very close to each other and even though it was dark in the room, House could see the handsome face. "It won't work, Jimmy."

Suddenly, Wilson looked nervous. "What . . . what won't work?"

House leered; looking like Wilson was going to be his next meal. "You're not foolin' me. I'm not leavin' here until you tell me why you slept with Ben Jefferson."

Wilson closed his eyes; then whispered, "Leave it alone, House; you won't like it."

"I don't like the idea of you sleepin' with Shore or Jefferson, but I can accept anything as long as I know what's goin' on."

Wilson sat up; threw back the covers, suddenly realizing that House had taken off his clothes. His voice pitched high, he demanded, "What'd you take your clothes off for?"

"I've had 'em on all day and they smell; 'sides I had a wedgie and it was uncomfortable."

Wilson wrinkled his adorable nose, but said no more. Trying to free himself from the clutched hand, he failed. "House, will you let me go? I got to go pee."

House grinned slightly, "Oh, no you don't, unless your bladder is the size of a pea. You just went; now tell ME why you slept with Jefferson."

James Wilson had dreaded this moment for twenty years. He had hoped that he would never have to face it. He had once told House that there were two things that mattered to him: his work at PPTH and their crazy friendship; he was now about to lose one of them, and his time in Boston showed that he could survive without Princeton.

Trying one more time, Wilson stalled, "What do I get in return for this?"

"I won't smack you with my cane."

Once again, Wilson turned away from House as he positioned himself on the side of the bed. It would be easier if he didn't have to look at House.

In a quiet, but not quite controlled voice, Wilson began:

"That year in Med School was like no other. I told you how my father was always on my case, and you were so different from other people. I kept telling myself, you'd graduate and that would be it. I just couldn't get over you being gone.

For a couple of weeks, I thought I was handling it, but my grade point was slipping; I wasn't getting work done. Then one night . . . I don't know I was so tired so I took a couple of pills . . . then a couple of more. You know how they're always around? Well, I started feeling really rotten, so in my own mind, I knew I was going to be sick so I headed for the showers. Everything was hazy and I was so out of it. I don't know if I meant to do it or not, but I eventually passed out. Guess I must have vomited 'cause when I woke up I was a mess.

Wilson stopped to take a deep breath; he was afraid to look behind him to see House's reaction. It was like déjà vu when he had found House lying on the floor. Then he continued,

"Ben Jefferson was there. He had come in to use the shower and found me. He got Dave and they got me walking around. After . . . I don't know how long . . . they put me to bed. I was freezing; I guess from the water they threw on me. Ben lay down with me . . . and just held on. I must have dozed, but I woke a couple of times and groped Ben or something."

Wilson hesitated again; the absolute silence from House worried him, but he wasn't able to look. "I guess I rubbed up against him or something. Anyway, I had semen all over me and him. I guess I thought it was you."

Wilson stopped, horrified at what he had just said . . . what he had implied. In his misery he had revealed what he had hoped to keep secret forever. Now he could never go back to Princeton.

Hearing House's zipper closing, Wilson closed his eyes, knowing where this was going. House was walking out on him. Wilson tried to find his voice but failed. What could be said . . . it wasn't just lust - - he had loved the irritating House for twenty years, even through three marriages. Sighing, Wilson let the man leave the bedroom without saying a word.

Strangely though, Wilson didn't hear the outside door slamming. He didn't hear anything. After several minutes, feeling his world shatter, Wilson pulled himself together and went to look in the living room - - there was House sitting forward on the sofa, twirling his cane much as a baton twirler does. Wilson stood there astonished - - why hadn't the man walked out?

What can I say to him? Is he waiting for a taxi or what?

Suddenly, House stood up, his rage obvious as he moved into Wilson's personal space. "Don't you ever do that again, do you hear me?"

Confusion swamped the younger man. "What are you talking about? You asked me to tell you the truth."

Now fury mutated the scruffy face into a mask of rage, "I mean, you moron; don't you ever risk your life because of me, ever again!!! Do – you – understand? I'm not worth it."

For a moment time stood still as the two men confronted each other then James Wilson . . . smiled. "I think you are."

For once, in the two decades that James Wilson had known Greg House, the oncologist had managed to stun his friend into speechlessness. The older man didn't know what to say in the face of such utter idiocy. Then he cleared his throat and began, "I knew you were an idiot: three wives, sleeping with a patient, lying to Tritter, romancing Cuddy, and hanging around with me, but this really shows your lack of judgment. No wonder you're on those pills for depression."

Once again, Wilson smiled. It was so good to hear House and his sarcasm. Those months when House was beginning to recover from the infarction were some of the worst the two men had ever suffered, but they had done it. Could House really feel something for the man who had enabled him in his drug addiction for so long?

Wilson turned to walk to the window looking out over the balcony. The wind and rain were still beating down on the city. Wrapping his arms around his shivering body, Wilson whispered, "I thought you had left . . . I've been reluctant to tell you the truth about Ben Jefferson. I never dreamed you'd find out. When you wrote that note to me six months after you graduated, asking about what I was doing, I wanted to tell you then, but I just couldn't. The years just sort of passed by and then you met the love of your life, and I just left it."

Wilson stood there in silence, thinking about the hurt that he felt when he heard that House was living with Stacy. By that time, Wilson was already in a failing marriage. He had just wanted to have a "normal" life with a successful practice and a distant friendship with the man he loved . . . and then the infarction occurred - - Stacy was out; Bonnie, wife number 2, was raging against the man who was demanding more and more of her husband's time, and then the job in Oncology opened up at Princeton.

How many times had Wilson told himself that he was an idiot to linger so close to the flame that was Greg House? When House had told him that he had slept with the very much married Stacy Warner, the younger doctor felt something wither inside. His third marriage, like the others, could not survive the competition of his relationship with Greg House. It was strange that it took the devious, smug face of Alison Cameron to wake Wilson up. Contempt, and the feeling of betrayal that Wilson held onto after talking to Tritter, managed to eat away at any confidence Wilson had that the friendship meant something to House.

Wilson was so deep in reverie that he had not realized that the crippled man had moved closer to him, as well as giving off some of the warmth, the thin body possessed. When he realized House's near presence, Wilson commented, "I can't promise you anything, House. Why don't you just go, before I fail you again?"

House's warm breath was gently waving Wilson's hair. He could hear the strangely gentle voice speak so clearly, but what it said made no sense whatsoever. "Stacy isn't the love of my life."

Had House learned to speak Martian or some other foreign tongue? What did he mean that Stacy wasn't the love of his life? Wilson remained facing the large window, but he said what was on his mind, "Of course, Stacy is the love of your life. How many times did you claim that she loves you and not Mark?"

"Read my lips, you idiot. Stacy is not the love of my life, and even she knows that. I . . . loved her, yes, but why do you think I told her that I could never make her happy?"

For a moment, Wilson failed to answer then he replied, "'Cause you are so dysfunctional that no one could live with you."

If Wilson had been looking, he would have seen the affection that crossed the tired face, but as it was, the younger doctor only heard the words, "No, I could never make her happy because there's only one person in my life that makes me totally satisfied."

Cameron! Wilson's mind was totally repulsed by the idea that a woman two decades younger than House could have earned his love . . . his trust. Wilson licked his lips, not wanting to voice his fears.

Suddenly House grabbed the younger man's arms at the shoulders and whirled him around so that they were facing each other. "Do you hear me, Wilson? Stacy was fine to live with, but there's only one person that I would marry; only one person that I could live with permanently."

Marry? God, he's gone that far that he would even marry Cameron?

Seeing the confusion and unbearable sadness in the chocolate brown eyes, House closed his eyes, trying to figure out what guilt was blocking Wilson's thought processes this time. "What are you thinking, you idiot? I just told you that there's only one person; are you saying that you don't want me?"

Don't want Greg House? What is he talking about? I've wanted him for twenty years.

Wilson felt as if his entire skeletal structure was crumbling. Instead of hitting the floor, however, he was pulled into the safety of Greg House's arms. Wilson laid his head on House's chest and just hung on. In a muffled voice, since his mouth was cuddled up against House's shirt, Wilson whispered, "This is not a good idea; any second now, Stacy or Cameron will come roaring in here, grab you and whisk you away."

"You idiot." A quick kiss was placed on the brown hair then both men, arm in arm made their way to the nearby sofa. House's awkwardness quickly reminded them that his right leg could not do everything it once did, but they gave it their best shot.

Cuddled together on the sofa, the early morning seemed less bleak than before, but reality was still there and could not be ignored. Wilson sat up; his brown eyes pools of fear and hope, "Are you sayin' you want me and not Stacy or Cameron?"

House's callused hand gently caressed Wilson's cheek, "How did you ever graduate with honors?"

"I mean it, House. I can't . . . I can't just forget all the things that have happened. They could eventually destroy us. You're the one who's scared of change and this is just about the biggest change we've ever had."

"Wilson, I've waited almost twenty years for you to be free of a wife; I can't keep putting it off. I want to marry you."

Wilson shook his head, "I . . . couldn't stand to mess up this marriage. I've wrecked three others; if something happened to this one, it'd destroy me."

House sighed, his deep blue eyes rolling back in his head. "Nothing is going to destroy this one; besides, I was the cause of you breaking up your other marriages so how can this go wrong?"

The words made sense, but Wilson was determined to tread warily. "I've watched you die twice already: the infarction and the gunshot. I can't watch you killing yourself with the vicodin. I want to be with you, but don't ask that. I see enough loss of life in my job."

Sadness, crossed the blue eyes. "Okay, we can take it slow; see how it works out. How about we live together and then get hitched later?"

Wilson rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose, "I think it's called a Civil Union in New Jersey. I'm not sure that's the way to go, but when I get back we can look into it."

"Great, what am I going to do while you cavort with Dave Stevens and the minions in your lab?"

"You've still got two weeks to go on your suspension. You could go back to Princeton and clean up your apartment, or you could apologize to Cuddy and maybe start on looking for new assistants."

"And leave you alone in a state with same-sex marriage and Alan Shore on the loose? Forget that. I'm here for the duration. Now why don't you take me to bed and maybe we can find some things to do."

Wilson stood slowly, almost dragging his body back into the other room. He wasn't sure this was a good idea, but he was so sick of acting "like Wilson", and he had waited for this for twenty years. Why not give it a try?

House's naked body was cuddled up close as Wilson woke to find his head on House. Surprisingly, House was an enthusiastic but gentle lover. He seemed to almost cherish Wilson as he had taken the man's cock in his mouth. Everything seemed to go so well. Their orgasms were cataclysmic. It was a wonderful night, but as everything does, it came to an end and now Wilson had to face the light of day. Would House revert back to the cynical, sarcastic man who would refuse to remember what had happened? If that occurred, Wilson vowed to remove himself from House's presence forever. No more, like Wilson, forgiving and forgetting would be gone.

Wilson carefully opened his right eye since his left eye was covered by the abdomen of Greg House. At least the man seemed to still be there. It was with great surprise then that when Wilson looked up, he saw the affectionate blue eyes of House looking directly at him. "Did you expect a disappearin' act?"

Wilson rose up and was promptly pulled into House's arms. "I wasn't sure; you sure this is what you want?"

Sadness crossed the blue eyes, "Of course, but trust has taken a battering lately, hasn't it? It might take awhile." Wilson noticed right away that House didn't mention whose trust he was referring to.

The whiskered face began to nibble at Wilson's face as House gently rubbed the silky, sensitive nubs of the younger man's nipples. Wilson was in ecstasy, but he didn't want to get lost - - lost in the warmth of Greg House. He needed to think. If he got it wrong this time, there would be no going back.

Pulling away gently, Wilson asked, "What's going on? What do you expect? Why did you take Hector? Why did you almost kill Hector? Why did you call me a coward? If you think like that about me, why are you giving me the best frottage, I've ever had?"

With that question, Wilson's mind was gone for a few minutes and when he came to the surface again, he could barely remember his name, but he made the effort. "Answer my questions or this goes no further."

House pulled away and sighed, throwing himself back on the opposite site of the bed and bundling up the pillows so he could recline. "All right, all right, we talk . . . but then you have to promise two things."

"What's going on is: I've realized how much I missed you while you were gone. What do I expect: we'll live together and eventually get civil unioned - - although that certainly doesn't sound too great. I took Hector because you needed me to. I almost killed Hector because: he ate my slippers, chewed my cane and other things, was too stupid to die of an overdose of vicodin and wouldn't run away. I called you a coward because you knew what needed to be done, but you couldn't face the decision; just as you've hopefully loved me for twenty years, but let me go away and then you married, over and over, and left me so miserable that even that whiny . . . err Judge-It-All looked good until she latched onto Chase. AND FINALLY, FINALLY, I wanted you to wake up: I wanted you to realize how I feel about you. THAT'S why I told you about me and Stacy sleeping together, I thought you'd roar with jealousy and instead you wimped out on me.

As House wound down, he looked exhausted, emotionally drained - - not from love- making but from strain, "I get so frustrated with you sometimes. You're the only one who cares, well, except for my mom, but she doesn't count. I need you, but I like you just like the Wilson I've known, except more . . . affectionate. Do you get me?"

A small shining light came into Wilson's eyes as he nodded, "I guess I've been blind, but you sure haven't given me much encouragement or anything to hope for. I just know that I'd rather be with you than anybody else."

House nodded, hesitantly getting up. Wilson could see the difficulty he was having with his obviously stiff leg, but did nothing to help, just watched the man head to the bathroom. Turning at the door, blue eyes pierced into the gloom, "You stay here; you got two promises to make."

Wilson opened and shut his mouth, waiting on tenterhooks for what he was supposed to promise. He felt the wetness on the sheets so he quickly got up and changed the sheets. It was a good thing that he had today off because this might take awhile. When House returned, he noticed the changed linen, but said nothing.

Returning to the bed, he replicated Wilson's actions by sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to his lover. He sat, slightly hunched over as if lost in thought; then he sat up, turned slightly, and held out his hand for Wilson to take. The oncologist took it and held on tight, a haunting thought sliding through his mind that this might be the last time he would be able to touch House.

"I want you to promise that you'll never try to harm yourself ever again . . . not over me."

Wilson started to open his mouth to speak, but House halted him. "No wait, these kind of go together. Wilson nodded again and waited. "I also want you to promise that if you ever get tired of me; you'll tell me and not do what you did to your wives. I don't want you sneaking around with one of those bimbos you used to see on the side or even worse: Alan Shore."

Wilson smiled slightly; his heart a 100 lighter. He leaned over and kissed the roughened hand. "Why are you so jealous of Alan Shore?"

"YOU SLEPT WITH HIM, WHAT DO YA THINK?"

"I did not sleep with him . . . well, I did, but we didn't have sex. Sometimes, House, I just needed you so bad, but I couldn't tell you that . . . so I used substitutes: Ben and Alan were there. Besides, you slept with Stacy and I didn't have a conniption fit.

House peered at his lover through his scruffy stubble, "I mean it, Wilson. No, Ben and Alan; God, that sounds like some ice cream."

House squeezed the captured hand then started again. "Stacy was cover. I wanted you to grab me, shove me in a closet, strip me naked, and do me. What did I get - - understanding!!! You even encouraged me to make a decision. From now on, it's you and me. We'll start slow and by the end of the month, we'll run away to Atlantic City; get a license, and get civil unioned." Here House stopped, sticking his tongue out and running his teeth over it like he had tasted something from a garbage can. "That really flows off the tongue, doesn't it?"

Wilson laughed then grew serious, "House, we can't do it that fast and you know it. 'Sides, how do I know you won't wake up tomorrow and regret whatever. You're feeling down right now because of your suspension and that Foreman and the others have left. Let's take a few weeks and think about this."

House waggled his eyebrows then asked, "You plannin' on makin' all of Cuddy's plans come true before you shack up with me?"

Wilson turned over quickly so that he was facing away from the man he loved. "More likely, she'll ask you. In fact, I think she already would have except for . . . you know."

House frowned, looking puzzled, "What . . . cause I'm cripple. You can't inherit this," lightly rubbing his leg.

Wilson sighed, "No, I mean; she knows that you still blame her for her part in your infarction surgery."

There was silence. House didn't deny it. How well Wilson understood him on so many levels. For the past five years, he had had a tendency to judge on the basis of those who had been involved with his infarction and those who hadn't. Only Wilson had survived the judgment. Even his family had really failed him in those moments.

"When did you start loving me?"

"A long time ago, a very long time ago, but we don't have to take it any further, House. I won't watch you kill yourself with vicodin. I'll be your friend, and your bed mate, but I won't watch you kill yourself. I won't be your enabler anymore."

A look of terrible sadness entered the man's blue eyes as he stood up. Nodding, he whispered, "That's your decision."

With those words, Greg House got dressed and left the apartment.

TWO WEEKS LATER

James Wilson had been in hell for the past two weeks. The seminars had continued to go well. Dave Stevens had even offered him a permanent job on the Oncology staff. He had talked to Alan Shore, but there had been no "sleep-overs."

He was now approaching the entrance to Princeton Plainsboro. What was he going to say to House? Was House still there? What should he have done? Should he have given in and called the man in the last two weeks.

Waiting at the door to the hospital was Lisa Cuddy, looking hopeful and yet worried, "Thank goodness, you got here. I was going to call you, but I agreed that I wouldn't. This is for you." Handing Wilson an envelope, the small woman stood and waited. Looking deep into the dark brown eyes of James Wilson, she mumbled, "He must love you an awful lot."

Wilson's mouth dropped open, but he didn't stop his boss from walking away; he opened the envelope instead. It was a copy of House's admission to the PPTH drug rehabilitation program. House had signed himself in almost two weeks ago. There was a small personal note attached.

_Wilson_

_Maybe after I get through this . . . for real . . . we can talk. You've enabled me: to love. See you soon._

_House_

Stunned, Wilson stood standing in the entrance corridor to the great hospital. A small smile covered his lips; then with a haste, unbecoming to the Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro, he made his way to the upper floors to check on the most adorable, irascible rehab patient known to mankind.

The End


End file.
